What My Father Named Me
by Lines Of Chalk
Summary: Okay, so this is a story much unfinished about Schu-schu's past. It starts out with a dream he has and in later chapters will go into his life and what shaped him.


Disclaimer and stuff: I do not own Weiss Kreuz. I do not own Schwartz. I do not own Schuldig. I do not spell Schuldig 'Schuldich' in this fic, and if that bothers you, then re-write it for me. So, if anyone does plan to waste their time suing me, that's cool. Just realize, you'll loose. Mwahaha. That is all. Enjoy.  
  
~~ means it's part of his dream, in case the italics didn't work. .........................................  
  
'Darling.? Darling, where are you? Oh, my sweet little boy, where have you gone?'  
  
It always starts that way. With that line.  
  
The dream begins as soon as my head touches down against the pillow, striking my mind like cold fire before I can manage to fend it off. My eyelids find themselves only half closed over liquid amber eyes newly glazed in sleep before the attack takes place. And I'm too tired to argue with it. That damned dream. Like a sick whisper in the dark that gropes for me, seeking to grasp my body and squeeze the air out of my lungs with its bony hands once its got a firm grip on my flesh. Sounds like something good ol' Farf would do; not at all like an image you'd get from harmless nightmare. while you're awake. But that dream, I swear, is twisted. I should know, it comes from my mind, doesn't it? And if you shudder at the thought of your own 'bad dreams', try having the nightmares of a thousand people barking at you while you tumble through your own. Not pleasant, I assure you. Still, I'm usually able to keep it out, kick it to the far reaches of my mind so I can relax a little. Usually. It always manages to slip by my barriers when I'm worn and exhausted. After a kill, when I'm still busy mistaking the slick of cool sweat on my forehead for a dead man's blood. Yeah, that's when the old ghosts come back to nip at me. When I can't fight the broken record of my consciousness; when I can't, for the life of me, keep them out. Should I say it comes to me while I'm all emotional? Oh, boo hoo. Another dead body on my conscience. Wahh. Another death on my hands. Emotional? Who am I kidding. I just could do without the red stuff splattering everywhere. Never liked the feeling of old blood on living skin. Makes me feel like my electrons are crawling. So, yeah, I get a little skived, but often I'm pretty good when it comes to shooting the shit out of a few of the damned. But it's worth it, I guess. Hell, I get enjoyment out of comparing the last words to the last thoughts of my prey as it falls. I especially like seeing the in last seconds of a person's life those little flashes of forgotten memories; moments that once were real as they go rolling across their fated minds. I call it a 'death skit'. FLASH- Child swinging in a park. FLASH- Teenager crying on his bed. FLASH- Young adult getting married. FLASH- Middle aged guy beating the shit out of some kid. FLASH, FLASH, FLASH. The overture to the actual death. I wonder what mine will be like..? Yeah, I can see it now. FLASH- Somebody I don't know proudly holding up an A+ paper to show a cheerful parent. FLASH- Two lovers embracing, neither of which are me. FLASH- A clip from the movie Titanic. I hated that flick. But that's what you have to deal with when you're me. The weight of every thought that isn't your own, all begging for your attention. And that's a lot of crap to have to wade through to find yourself. But that's just bitching about something else all together. I wanted to talk about my dream. The little flaw in my sarcasm, and the bit of self- anguish in my sadism. So, let's talk about that dream.  
  
"Mother?"  
  
Yeah, that would be me. The woman, who sets off this little Venus fly trap of the unconscious world by calling out to her 'darling little boy' I've figured out by now has to be the old lady. That's right. Schuldig has a mommy. And in the dream, he's running to her. The kid is almost unrecognizable to me; the lady even more so. He's short, his petit frame bound up in one heinous pastel yellow tee-shirt (pastel yellow? Who the hell did my subconscious mistake me for, that brat Bombay? Or a fucking daisy scout?) Anyway, back to the child. His hair is scruffy, barely tugging it's way past his ears and falling just into the medium range. Falling into his eyes too, I might add. A squat, chubby monstrosity of a hand unmistakenly belonging to a toddler comes up to push back those sun-kissed treads of fire, banishing them behind an ear for a time before the breeze thwarts the little guy's plot, blowing them back into those wide, innocent eyes. Me? Wide and innocent eyes? Pftt. That's how I can tell I'm dreaming. That, and the fact that I'm wearing these tiny little black shorts so I can feel the brush of tall wild grass and prickly summer petals against my knobby legs. Forget daisy scouts, I looked like Schuldig the red-headed bumble bee. Oh, not getting where the lush, wavy grass and the poesy petals came from? I guess I forget to mention I was in a flower field. Yeah, yeah, I know. Don't say it. Don't even think it; I'll hear, of course. Ah, hell. I'll say it myself. Pretty god damned stupid, huh? My brain must have gone into melt down and mixed me up with that genki Omi kid, I swear. Short kid, short sleeves, short shorts, messy hair. jeez. Next thing you know, I'll be running through a soccer field, those bony legs covered in high red socks and a pair of shin guards. That's when I'll know I've lost it. Meanwhile, I'll cradle and cling to my remaining sanity, promising myself the worst that could happen is I become a Farfarello-reject. And I wouldn't mind that too much. I do one bad ass impression. "I hate you God!" Drifting off topic again, aren't I? You'll find that I do that. But before I get too lost, lemme put myself back on the right road. The dream. Okay, it continues.  
  
'Oh! I hear you- I can hear you now, baby. Just come a little closer.' The boy freezes, eyes of tawny cerulean watering slightly as the glint of the sun high above glazes light over his face, turning the shadows white and causing him to squint. A disproportionate arm raises itself overhead, casting his world into darkness again and deepening the fleshy tones of his cheeks as he continues to search for her silently with his gaze. Then. he sees her. An airy dress clings to her form, belling out into waves of blue ivory at the curve of her hips. The silk has threaded itself around the milky silhouette of her shoulders, rippling against her upper arm before drawing itself to a stop. She was, in a much overused word, beautiful. Fire cascaded from the crown of her head in auburn waves, floating around her body in ginger spirals as she twirled. All around her, those puffs of white that children picked to make wishes within the warmer months were scattered in flurries of summer snow. She was an angle as she spun through that endless field of tall emerald blades, arms outreached, somber burgundy lips parted into a wide smile. But what the boy noticed more then anything, more then her offhanded grace or her fierce loveliness, was that black cloth. Around her eyes and tied about the upper part of her face, sealing away her vision in darkness, was a blindfold of pure ebony. It prevented her from seeing where she was going as the woman stumbled through the meadow of dandelions and other such floral spawn, searching for her child. And Schuldig was each time suddenly overcome with the need to help her. And by Schuldig, the unconscious version is meant, the one witnessing the dream as if it were a film being played for him on the backs of his heavy eyelids. And so, with the firm desire to both know if her eyes matched the prettiness of the rest of her body and with the wish to set her sight loose so that she might find her little one. the boy runs. Schuldig wills him to run. He does so even though he already knows what's going to happen. Schuldig has already seen this part over and over again a thousand nights before. It's the boy who has no idea, not even the vaguest clue, what he's getting himself into. And Schuldig might have the power to stop him, to snap himself awake before the eager child reaches his mother in fervent desperation, clawing at the blindfold to revel to her his location. But he can't. Each time he's fooled by it; by the thick smell of sweetness on the air, the honey of the summer time being produced by a prism of petals all around. The cool droplets of dew, like balmy morning rain, dusting itself off against the boy's limbs as he runs. Even the placid way her dress ruffles and folds, calming, like the waves of a sea at peace. All of this fools him time and time again into thinking maybe, just maybe, his subconscious would be kind this time around.  
  
But that's wishful thinking when you're a murderer, now, isn't it?  
  
"Here, mother, here I am!"  
His words are in German, accent still developing on that sweet little tongue. But for now, the cries of "Hier, Mutter, hier bin ich!" would be spoken in the voice of a child; high pitched, squeeling, determined, and, albeit, nasal. The nasal part never really left, even in his grown form that sat watching this scene play out for the millionth time.  
'My son...' She freezes,arms going still in the mid-day air, elbows bent elegantly as if she were a dancer frozen in time. '.my boy. Where? Where are you, wenig ein?'  
"Here, mother! I'm here!" The boy's breath is hard by now, and he sucks the oxygen in greedily as he sprints, getting closer by each moment. It feels as if he's run a mile, those short strides doing nothing for the impatience he feels. He wants his mother's embrace. Her kindness. He tender kisses. He wants her to ruffle his hair and tell him how handsome he is, and what a strong young man he'll grow up to be. He wants her to lift him, and smile at him, and spin with him. Spin until all the pain falls away. 'You're close now, little one. Just a bit further and mommy can hold you again, baby.'  
He gives it his all. One step, another. The world around him is closing in. all the pressure is on his lungs. Another step, then another. It feels like his heart will burst, and that his throat will wither and fall to dust. Just a few more steps, now. The wind is spiting him. Going everywhere but down his throat, brining the boy no relief.  
Gasping, he reaches her.  
That infant hand crawls outward, grasping hungrily at her flying skirts.  
And now, he's won.  
"Mother!"  
'Ah, there you are.' She smiles and kneels before him, everything about her instantly becoming winsome and compassionate. The way her lithe fingers catch each of his cheeks in a tender grasp, sallow thumbs running affectionately over his freckled skin. The way her hair becomes still, and he can smell the scent of burning jasmine in her tresses over the thick tang of wild lilies all around them. The way her dress no longer moves in the wind, but simply lays on her pale body like a tapestry of the sky. Everything about her was welcoming.  
And he'd finally caught her. His angel, his happiness; his mother, who loved him.  
'Now set me free.'  
Instantly, the boy knew what she meant. Take off the blindfold. And hastily, his excitement showing, he moved to comply.  
What had the boy been expecting? Warm eyes. The color of honey. Eyes that would look at him and be approving. Something to make his entire existence meaningful.  
But what did Schuldig expect? Just what he got. As the blindfold was torn away, a terrible sight was to greet him. There was no warmth, no gentleness. There was only this angel before him, who'd suddenly had her wings ripped away, and who had become a monster.  
The eyes were bulging. Each contained no iris of color, merely a dark pupil at its very center, making her seem awkward and gawking. The sea of white that surrounded them was caked with red veins, her gaze bloodshot and horrible.  
With a scream, the boy fell back.  
And with a moan, Schuldig would begin to twist in his sheets, firmly wishing he could wake. He didn't need to see this again. Not again.  
Instantly, that once calm smile becomes a hideous grin dotted with the tips of jagged yellow teeth. From out of the corners of her bursting eyes red begins to run like tears, creating four rivers of blood against paper white cheeks.  
"Guilty, Guilty, Guilty!"  
Her voice isn't gentle, not that of the woman who was speaking before. It was loud, booming across his ear drums, beating against his entire being. The deep rumble that fell out of her throat shrieked the word again and again in German.  
"Guilty, Guilty, Guilty" .Schuldig, schuldig, schuldig.  
That was his name, after all.  
And slowly, as this abominable creature being to shriek louder and louder, bringing its voice up to a cracking point that caused the boy to wince and shut his eyes tightly as his hands clasped over his ears; the world around them began to change.  
The smell of wild tulips and jaded stalks of grass faded away into a thick smog, leaving the clear air tinted with embers and fogged with black. The blades of emerald that had once risen from the fertile soil beneath his bare feet, giving way to his every step and swaying tenderly across his skin, now were steely silver, poking up out of barren earth like tall needles. And they cut and slashed across his skin. And the boy, that adorable child with his chaotic hair and wide, innocent eyes, had grown.  
Schuldig sat, horror struck, staring at the thing his imagination had conjured up to be his maternal parent. It's twisted voice blared on, shouting his name. It's eyes bled, so that now the face looked hallow and was coated in substantial crimson goo. And as the creature rose, its pastel arms rapidly drawing it's skin in, slowly becoming blacker, more skeletal. the thing began to do the most horrid thing of all.  
Out of it's mouth flowed a juice thicker then it's blood and blacker then it's skin had now become. The fluid poured over those parted lips, staining that bright cerulean dress with liquid sin. the color of all the evil the boy, now so much older, head committed.  
'GUILTY, GUILTY, GUILTY, GUILTY!'  
Swiftly, the creature reached out. One hand, the fingers made solely of ebon bone now, clutched at the air moving closer and closer, until it had reached it's destination. It's prey.  
Schuldig gasped. A part of him said to struggle, to run as that hand folded over his neck squeezing with an impossible grasp all of the life out of him. He could feel those fingertips draining away his soul just as surely as their hold was pulling away his breath.  
He wanted to scream. Trapped in a field of knifes; in a black, desolate world where the only other thing was this ogre. It's hair was fire now, wisps of moving heart. It's body was that of a burnt corpse. It's completion was a nauseating kaleidoscope of red and black death. Mixing, meshing, slowly fading.  
His vision was blurring. Slowly, Schuldig was beginning to depart. All that was left now was the pyre in the back of his mind, the sharo pain twisting his nerves as he could hear her still-  
'GUILTY, GUILTY, GUILTY, GUILTY!'  
And slowly, staring quietly and gaining in fervency. that damndable voice began to laugh.  
  
"LET GO!"  
Schuldig always awoke screaming that out, writing violently away from the covers that surrounded him, feeling more like chains then anything else. Let go. and then, the memory. A memory that wasn't even his.  
  
--- "Congratulations. It's a baby boy." "A boy." "What will you name him?" ".A boy. Guilty, then." "Excuse me?" "His name will be Guilty. And that, above all else, will be his birth mark." ---  
  
Guilty, Guilty, Guilty. My Father named me Guilty.  
  
---------------------------------------------------------------------------- -------------------------------------------------- Hai, I know, odd. But a second chapter will be coming eventually to explain all of this, and go into Schu's much unknown past. Please review if you feel up to it. 


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